


teen idle

by lazy_desi



Series: chicken soup for the soul, except it's just me and i only write when I'm fucked up [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Eating Disorders, Essays, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Short, Vignette, lol yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_desi/pseuds/lazy_desi
Summary: on accountability and self-hatred
Series: chicken soup for the soul, except it's just me and i only write when I'm fucked up [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928359
Kudos: 2





	teen idle

It’s 9 PM on a Friday and I’m in my old bedroom pounding my third Mike’s Hard Lemonade, sprawled out on the battered hardwood floor sorting through middle school participation awards(the highest honors I’ve ever received) and expired drugstore makeup. I’m listening to Teen Idle by Marina and the Diamonds at full volume and singing along in an embarrassingly wobbly voice, because only when I’m tipsy can I stop pretending that I’m not an insecure teenager trapped in the body of a 20 year old.

My phone chimes with the sixth Snapchat notification of the night; another blurry blue-lit snap of a red solo cup held by a miscellaneous hand from one of the the tragically few friends that I have. Officially, I decided not to go back to college because of the whole pandemic shit, but that’s just an excuse. I did it so I could sit at home stewing in self-pity, because it’s easier to isolate yourself than feel isolated by others.

Not that I’m relevant enough to be bullied, everyone’s sickeningly nice in this day and age to people who aren’t assholes, but you know the drill with mental illness. Someone could look at me too intently at a party because they’re faded, and my dumb ass would be convinced that they have come to the conclusion that I’m grotesque and annoying. There’s nothing more self-deprecating and narcissistic than depression; constantly feeling insignificant yet scrutinized at the same time is a real mindfuck.

But I digress. So anyways, the next thing I do is so mortifying that I gagged while typing it out. I gather all the empty bottles I’ve accumulated over the years of solo drinking away my feelings and send out a picture of them with my sister, who came to borrow a pen, in the background so I seem less alone.

You know, it’s times like these where I’m glad I have psychological issues. That way, I can pretend that the reason I compulsively lie about the dumbest shit and try so hard to be literally anyone but myself is because of the chemicals in my brain or wherever the fuck in my body they are, and not because I’m an attention-seeking whore. Not that those things are mutually exclusive, but you know, for bipolar people things are black and white, not grey. You’re either Julie Andrews in that opening song from the Sound of Music or Anne Hathaway in that sad-ass scene from Les Mis.

You know what’s fucked up, when I saw that scene eight years ago, all I could think about was how skinny she looked and I remember being SOOO jealous. In my defense, I was at the height of my eating disorder, which was admittedly a desperate bid for attention from my parents that turned into something a lot less glamorous à la storing my own chewed up foods in my violin case and shitting out gatorade for days! See, there’s _another_ fucked up thing that I blamed on my mental illnesses.

And yes, subconsciously I know that I just name-dropped all three of my diagnoses out of some sort of twisted sense of pride, because the way that fucked up people inject some serotonin into their lives other than through 300 milligram time-release capsules is by being more fucked up than anyone else and winning absolutely nothing. But I like to think that being aware of your flaws despite having them is better than being like those batshit crazy tone-deaf American Idol auditionees, who mortify themselves on live TV for the sick delight we take in the exhibitionism of people who fucking suck and don't know it.


End file.
